


Out of Doubt

by Blacktablet (Ishamaeli)



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Moral Dilemma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:07:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ishamaeli/pseuds/Blacktablet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It goes against Watson's very nature as a God-fearing man - albeit not a very devout one - and as a respectable, decorated English soldier to do what he does.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of Doubt

**Author's Note:**

> To wave_of_sorrow who unwittingly inspired this. <3 The fic was supposed to be a drabble but really got away from me by the time it started to rain. Written to Witness by Sarah McLachlan. Spoilers to _The Empty House_.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Messieurs Holmes and Watson are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s brilliant inventions but public domain nowadays.

It goes against Watson's very nature as a God-fearing man - albeit not a very devout one - and as a respectable, decorated English soldier to do what he does.

It feels wrong on every level, from physical to mental. When he leans down to steal a kiss, the petal-like softness he remembers is replaced by a stubble that burns his cheek; his hands encounter taut muscles instead of the soft voluptuous curves that he has become accustomed to; and the emotion that clutches his core, his very soul every time he sees the object of his tainted desires is fiercer than the fire that is burning him inside. None of the warm, easy, safe love that he had for Mary remains in his heart.

Loving Holmes would be dangerous enough without the implications.

The day Holmes returned from the dead Watson sealed his own fate by making sure that his friend was indeed back with his lips instead of his hands as he should have, clutching Holmes's shoulders and tasting the life in him. The surprised gasp Holmes made still sounds clear in his ears, as if all the air hasn't quite even left the man's lungs yet, as if he is crouching next to Watson right now and looking like the doctor has firmly declared himself to be a blazing sodomite.

Which, Watson thinks without a hint of humour, he might as well have done.

He has moved back to Baker Street where he lives with Holmes - save for the times when they are on a case and forced to stay elsewhere for a few days - and loves Holmes. He does, incredibly much so, but he cannot shed the morals that have been practically carved into his skin in a mere day, or a week, or even a month. He automatically cringes whenever Holmes more or less subtly propositions him, leaving the door to his bedroom open or blatantly parading around with his shirt halfway open and the bracers hanging loosely about his knees.

It's not that he doesn't want Holmes, either, because he does, dear Lord how he does, and that is the crux of his problem because a part of his mind keeps telling him that it is wrong, demeaning and disgusting, and he is yet to find a way to silence that part of himself. Shame burns him whenever he thinks of the level of depravity he has let himself sink to.

He hates himself for it, though; hates the way the light dims in Holmes's eyes whenever he can't hide his unwanted reaction quickly enough. Watson has explained that it is all new to him and he just needs time to adjust, and he is sure that Holmes knows Watson loves him but he is also painfully aware of the fact that even for someone as eccentric as Holmes - especially for someone as eccentric as Holmes - it must be very taxing to see your lover regularly flinch away from you.

They never fight over it, that much Holmes forgives him and doesn't blame him for it, but it makes Watson feel all the more miserable.

Eventually, as they are using their evening to chase down one Lord Huffington who has developed a considerable interest in the young daughters of his noble friends, and cold October rain is beating down on them, Watson finds out that the sound of a single gunshot is enough to silence all parts of his mind.

Time stands still and then fast forwards. That is the only possible explanation, as in one moment Holmes is several yards ahead of Watson, leaning backwards dangerously far with his right arm high at his side - this image lasts an eternity in Watson's mind - and in the next he is lying on his back on the ground, hoarsely calling for Watson.

The doctor stumbles to him like he is trudging through the mud on the banks of Thames, his legs refusing to move as fast as he wants them to. He barely even feels the pain that twinges in his already aching thigh when he drops down to his knees next to Holmes. "How bad?" he asks, not wasting any words, and immediately reaches over to work open the several layers of clothing Holmes is wearing to inspect the damage. The water-darkened wool of the overcoat is getting darker steadily but not alarmingly fast.

"Not too bad, I don't think," Holmes grunts and lifts his arm to let Watson pull away the reddened shirt from his side, exposing the ragged gash that is freely bleeding, rivulets of pinkish rainwater running down and disappearing under Holmes's back. "No man is a crack shot when aiming behind him without looking."

Watson notices that his hands are shaking as he shucks his own overcoat to rip the sleeves of his shirt into a bundle to place against the wound. He thinks nothing of the tremors, keeps his mind carefully blank as he tells Holmes to put pressure on it, and makes to stand up.

"Watson," Holmes calls his name hesitantly, sitting up.

"Holmes, we must get you back home so that I can stitch you up properly. We can figure out tomorrow where Huffington is going next and--"

"John," this time there is something infinitely tender in Holmes's brown eyes that are framed by the dark wet bangs clinging to his forehead, "you are crying." He gives Watson a moment to answer and frowns helplessly when he doesn't. "What on earth is the matter?"

If there are tears mixing in with the drops of rain on his face, Watson isn't aware of it. He stares at Holmes, his mind moving sluggishly and nearly missing the question. Is he crying? Why is he crying? The image of Holmes standing in front of him flashes through his mind and for a moment, he thinks he can smell gunpowder in the air.

Holmes leans forward with a slight grimace that he is quick to hide and pulls the other man towards him; Watson comes with acquiesce, slowly wrapping his arms around the lanky form of the detective. "Your wound--" he tries, but Holmes hushes him.

"Tell me," Holmes insists quietly, the calming noise of the rain the only sound in the alley besides their breathing.

It appears that Holmes's voice is the voice of God that night because a dam breaks inside Watson and he finds himself gripping the woollen cloth with a terrible force, surely wrinkling it beyond the help of any iron that Mrs. Hudson can produce. Salt is burning Watson’s eyes, collecting there faster than the rain can wash it away, and he lets out a sound that is something between a moan and a wail.

The broken utterances he makes are muffled by Holmes's coat, scratchy and cold against the skin of his face but forever infused with Holmes's smell. "I didn't see it, then," he sobs into the coat, his face scrunched up and snot dribbling from his nose. "I knew-- I didn't have to see it, Holmes!" And Holmes pats his back, holding him close and murmuring soothing words into his ear and apparently not caring one bit that he is still bleeding on the dirty cobblestones.

"I'm sorry, old boy," he mutters angrily, the emotion directed at himself. "If I could've saved you from the experience--"

"No," Watson cuts him off, his voice thick. "You've apologised to me, Holmes, and I've accepted your apology. Let bygones be bygones."

"You are clearly still distraught--"

Knowing that the only way to converse with Holmes when he is set on something is to either talk louder than he does, or cut him off, Watson leans his forehead against Holmes's and resolutely says, "I love you."

Holmes blinks at him; his eyes look wide to Watson from the close distance. "Excuse me?" Then, realising the ridiculousness of his response, clears his throat. "Not that I don't approve of the sentiment, Watson, but what exactly has that got to do with...?"

Watson licks his lips, tasting tears and rainwater. "I love you, Holmes." He is inwardly grateful to Holmes who stays quiet and lets him collect his thoughts in peace. "I didn't-- I thought that it changed things, that you and I..."

"Decided to engage in a round of backgammon every now and then?" Holmes quirks an eyebrow at him and Watson lets out a tiny breathless laugh.

"Something like that. I thought that it... that it could've been anyone. That it was, well, wrong. That it was somehow..." He is struggling to express himself, still a bit light-headed after his minor breakdown, but fortunately, the man he is embracing is Sherlock Holmes who is as observant as ever.

"You thought that you were headed straight to hell for the depravities you've committed," Holmes murmurs softly, a sad expression passing over his face as he lifts a hand to cup the back of Watson's head, threading his long fingers through the wet locks. "Oh, John..."

"It doesn't matter," Watson whispers and closes his eyes. "It does not. You never change."

Holmes merely hums in response, leaning closer to brush his cheek gently against the doctor's.

Drenched with rain and abominably cold, sitting in a grimy alley with a bleeding Holmes in his arms, Watson notices that his mind is finally silent.


End file.
